Conspiracy

I

nsulation from refutation is
paramount for conspiracy laden
nincompoops, on edge – frozen and flattened –
in the magical world that is special,
as they are, favored by the angry storm god
throned above the dome flooded by waters
that color the sky in familiar blue,
the balance of the discus amazing
in light of the turtle and elephants,
who have none, offset in the underworld.

But I digress; Occam’s razor is dull
indeed for these keen sleuths that uncover
truth in a planet, forgive me, flatland
of lies peddled – ha ha that’s so funny
because of the wheel-shaped topography –
by:  every space agency extant,
related industries and governments,
all the airlines and shipping companies,
the manufacturers of the global
positioning system, exploration
of Antarctica, navigation by
stars, Newton, and Einstein, and might as well
throw in Darwin too, and last but not least,
all peoples of the southern hemisphere.

The Truman Show within The Yahweh Show.
The new shepherds of the sheople proclaim:

— Kubrick directed the lunar landing,
— Fluoridation robs us of our essence,
— Chemtrails SLAPping us with heavy metal,
— New world order emerges with baby steps,
— Vaccines that seem to save — cause autism,
— The brain-seeking zombie apocalypse,
— Illuminati confirmed:  reptile eyes,
— Climate change:  the hoax reptilians crave,

So many more lies in the history
recorded, conspiracies to cover
the compressed clay kilned by the creator:
pancake with sun butter and syrup seas —
mmm . . . delicious.

*[ WSB ].

Sand

P

estle and mortar sand:
minerals and skeletons
ground; between bare toes on the strand

where beach birds dodge the foam
that laves the colored pebbles —
framing fractals:  the coastal loam;

or these minuscule beads
aggregate into crested
sculpture, desiccated model of sea

waves carved against the sky,
the valleys minus meadows
as the banded sandfish swim by.

*[ WSB ].

GoodMorning Sun [after *Goodnight Moon* by Margaret Wise Brown]

I

n the master red room
there were books far-flung
And a grey computer
And a picture of –
Pinocchio backlit by the sun
And four shaggy Beatles in album schemas
And two adult cats
And a wine glass
And medicine bottles
And some Aristotle
And a brush and a blade and some soap for a shave
And a clock radio that was blaring new wave
Goodmorning salon
Goodmorning sun
Goodmorning fiery stallions drawing the sun
Morn luminosity
And the ashen pc
Goodday beetles
Goodmorning readers
Goodmorning cats
And goodmorning glass
Goodmorrow time
And ’morning wine
Goodmorning pillboxes
And goodmorn philosophics
Goodmorning brush
And goodmorning soap
Goodmorning unknown
Goodmorning globe
And top of the day to the clock that invokes
Goodmorning ground
Goodmorning sky
Goodmorning to the rise and fall of tides

*[ WSB ].

 

Nightshade

T

he cosmic river circuits,
pushing the wisp of welkin;
Kelvin cold hangs heavy
in the bottle-green world.
Violet presses against the edges
as millions repeat mundane cycles;
quarks belie fictions of safety.
Under the sublunary vault
the attuned know loneliness
in another world.  Cities wake
as blue scatters across the vault,
the rays fan red into another day;
beneath the world’s edge
Helios drives his fiery stallions west.
Standing alone in purple nightshade.
Ra sails his fiery bark east
from beneath the world’s arc;
the rays fan rose into another day
as Capri sprinkles across heaven
in another world, cities sleep.
The attuned know loneliness
under the celestial vault
quarks build scaffolds of safety
as millions revel in routines;
violet presses against the edges
on the cerulean globe —
Kelvin cold hangs heavy
stretching the skin of sky,
the Oceanus ever circles.

*[ WSB ].

Damn Nature!

[1] Devil’s Creation

S

warms of scorpions, gnats, wasps,
carrion flies and biting fleas:
others are spread the world across
but bothersome enough, are these.
A wasp in a classroom
or on the bus, or even outside
will single me out for doom —
what you must be thinking inside.
But, list for a moment. List.

The hood and doors stand ajar
to service and vacuum the car,
the wasp appears, embarks a chase
that clears the seats, she marks my face:
angrily bangs the windshield.
Then after driving across the field,
three dots advance from afar —
she brings martial comrades for
round two — a demonic twist.

 

[2] Killing Bugs

M

y kids believe in the circle of life —
Disneyfied:
every creature purposed by Yahweh;
therefore, entomological battles of the
homestead prove problematic, until –
I lie,
or maybe not.

Some creatures were created not by
God, but the Devil.

Afterward,
not only can I kill with impunity,
but the girls participate.

 

[3] Disaster

T

he funnel lowers
from roiling Spielberg storm clouds
to wipe existence.

Swirling hurricanes
bulldoze the sea to landscape,
melting the coastline.

The Earth does not move
until Atlas shakes the globe —
toppling foundations.

A bolt of lightning
illuminates the dark field;
fire spreads for acres.

The mathematics
of probability picks
victims at random.
Blind chance rules the lives of all —
fair-wind sails or cracked-mast squalls.

 

[4] Pinecones

S

nap !
Tap, tap, tap, tsh.

Crap !

another damn pinecone haphazardly
falls, under the only tree left
unclimbed by children:
limbs too high and gluey resin unwashable.
Fibonacci fish scales overlapping,
ending in barbs too prickly to pick up,

Ouch !

The unsightly wooden eggs function
as hygrometers, the scales opening when dry,
a demonic, earthy flower: hydrophobic
The puffy strobilus is a feminine
fortress protecting ovules
couched.

Conifers: only good for crafts and Christmas;
hard to pick up, hard to toss, and hard to rake —

Damn !
I hate pinecones.

 

[5] Vesuvius

A

moment of terror frozen
in statues of ashfall,
a pyroclastic arrest
of metabolism.
Entire settlements drown
in pumice and tephra,
screams cut short
by the shifting matrix
of travelling particles
adrift.
Volcanic missiles and cinders
of Hell rain down
on Herculaneum and Pompeii:
thousands in the everyday end
abruptly, the snipping by
the Fates.
The black skies brood over
the wake below, the sheet lightning
freezing the wasteland smoke
with every bleak flash.

 

[6] Sans

S

hades of former selves in the caverns below
mill around the Lethe and the Styx, abstract.
Coda for the ages of man from Shakespeare
          settle in ebbing.

Metabolic failings announce onsetting
aging filching life from the cells and tissues:
fading sight, and silence replaced with phantom
          chirping of crickets.

Souvenirs of memory counter symptoms,
leading one to question the worth of life;
databases adding up bits of selfhood —
          proof of existence

more alive than life, that is only machine:
longing spirit acting despite the laws of
thermodynamics that slow the spinning gears
          toward a standstill.

*[ WSB ].